Neat
by solitvde
Summary: Hermione Granger has returned to London and Draco Malfoy feels slightly hurt that she didn't tell him.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is not mine, etc. Enjoy.

* * *

 **Prologue**

Ever since the war, his life had become rather neat.

He had his socks cleaned and organised in the drawer, his pillows stacked on top of each other, the larger in the back, the smaller in the front, his sheets were turned down before bed by the house elf every night and he would slip between the warm sheets with a leather bound book. He would wake in much the same state as he had fallen asleep in, one hand on his chest, the other curled up, almost like a fist, beside him and he would rouse with a steaming cup of tea beside him. English Breakfast, every morning, black with one sugar. He would sip at it before he slipped out of the warm sheets and pad his way into the bathroom. A hot shower later, he would stand in front of the mirror with his toothbrush, a towel around his middle and brush, swish, swish, swish, for exactly three minutes and then shave, each stroke purposeful and strong before then returning to his bedroom, cross the large room and wandlessly open the long, dark drapes of the left window to let the sunshine in, and step into his wardrobe, selecting a shirt, a tie, a belt and slacks before taking his choice towards the bed and then slowly dressing himself.

He did everything without a word and made extra care to make sure his mark was always covered, no matter the weather.

The Tuesday dawned much the same, he went through his routine easily and quickly and the London apartment he shared with himself was quiet and slow, his routine followed to the letter. He set his cup of tea down onto the dining table that faced the French doors that opened towards the morning sun and let the ray streak in with another wave of magic, hearing the bustling sounds of traffic beneath him.

He sipped at the last of the now warm tea and when he placed the cup down carefully onto the matching saucer, he reached to pick up a slice of lightly golden toast smeared in orange marmalade, bringing it to his lips. He placed the slice down onto his plate, a mouthful of crunchy bread in his mouth and replaced the toast with the front page of the newspaper.

The Prophet was not his newspaper of choice and the name Skeeter that accompanied the first article had him stifling in his seat. However, he read on, intent on finding at least some news within the paper. The wizarding world raged on, laws passed, leaders dethroned and replaced, the dragon trade growing and expanding, exotic animals discovered and then, in the society pages, a curious little picture down in the right hand corner of the Golden Trio.

They had disappeared from public eye as much as he had and he wondered briefly about their wellbeing. In his late twenties, he knew that the petty schoolyard rivalry was long gone but there was still a part of him, the spoilt, brattish part that had been bred into him from birth, still wanted to be part of their exclusive club. Unfortunately for him, the admission price into the inner folds of their club was something he could not purchase; pureness of heart.

He watched as Potter, Weasley and Granger looked away from the flashing bulb and the headline beneath tell a short but succinct story.

 _Hermione Granger returns to London, reunited with friends._

He didn't occupy himself with too much gossip, he had more pressing matters to deal with but he couldn't help devoting a moment of his time that morning, outside of his schedule to wonder about them.

Draco Malfoy looked up from the paper and out into the sun soaked balcony, watching as a small bird perched itself on the tall oak that grew adjacent to his building. Would she remember the last time they spoke?

Another pressing question bubbled to the surface.

Why didn't she tell him she was returning?

* * *

 **A/N:** Reviews are much appreciated.


	2. I

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter is not mine.

* * *

 **I**

Cold fingers grasped at cold hands, the moment of sheer panic that surged through him startling even himself. Spoilt from birth, Draco had never felt the panic of losing anything. It could always be replaced, fixed, bought or intimidated back to him and, in this instance, he couldn't understand why none of those tactics were working.

His hand let go as quickly as he had reached out for it and he crossed his arms in stubborn denial of the gesture. A frown etched itself onto his forehead and Hermione returned it with an equally disdainful scowl.

"You're a coward," she hissed at him and he found his fists furrowing and balling into angry, shaking weapons. "You're nothing but a coward who uses big words and scaring other people to getting what you want," she went on. "But I won't let you force me!" She growled.

Ah, Granger.

Always so righteous, so stubborn, so ready to fight for the right cause.

He wondered if she knew that he had tried so hard to fight for the right thing but she was right.

Of course, he didn't let her know this.

"I am not a coward and I'll thank you to retract your previous statement-"

"I _won't."_

He ignored her. "-and review your assessment of my character. Nevertheless, I want you to stay."

"Give me one good reason. Just one."

His eyes narrowed, good reasons ready to tumble from his lips. But instead of the words she wanted to hear, his were curt and lacked the emotional support he had hoped for.

"I could never dream of assuming that the great Hermione Granger, in all her glory and feminist self-confidence, could ever be as easily swayed by the promise of a man."

What the words earned him was a slap; quick and hard that his head jerked to the side and he frowned. He turned back with red fury that tinged his cheeks and his teeth were ready to bite back with a retort but she was already gone.

* * *

As much as his life was neat during his waking hours, his sleep was riddled and fraught with mess. His dreams that overtook him every night were a tangled mess of angst, of annoyance, of pity, of anger, of anything else under the sun that brought him agitation and frustration. He could see red, he could almost feel it in most of his dreams and while his body rested, in that same fisted position, his mind whirred with chaos. The only indication that he was mildly troubled in his sleep was an occasional tweak in his eyebrows, a little flicker of a frown that settled again.

It always started with a crack, always green, and a scream.

Sometimes the scream was female, sometimes male, sometimes neither, but he could never discern the source or whom the dream belonged to. All dreams, he knew, were a manifestation of faces that he saw in his everyday life, he knew that the brain was incapable of making up new faces and perhaps that's what disturbed him the most; he had seen these people before. Or at least, an amalgamation of these people.

Sometimes there was blood, sometimes it was a phantom dislocated limp. Sometimes it was a limp, sad body, slumped and he knew, like he knew in all dreams of the events, that it was a dead.

He didn't let death confuse him, he had spent enough time doing that. But he still mourned, as much as any man did, over the loss of things.

The dream always went in the same direction. The scream became a yell and then the yell was another scream, this one louder, more desperate, and the scream would be right in his ear and he would jolt awake.

He was still unable to decide who the voice belonged to.

His nightly routine was as calculated as his morning one only one thing was different tonight.

Draco woke with the usual start, his hand in a fist, tight, his nails digging into his palm and his back teeth clenched. This was not abnormal, this was his usual state of stress in the middle of the night and as he padded into the bathroom for a Sleeping Potion, he found himself deviating from his regular route.

For whatever reason that night, Draco Malfoy padded towards the window that night, opened the curtains and let the bright moonlight stream into his room much like the morning sunlight. This was not a regular occurrence and he could feel his neck prickle with the abnormality of the events. But still ever closer he walked, close enough that he could reach out and press his palm into the cold pane of the window and he looked down into the street.

The sight that greeted him, for the most part, was normal. He watched the street, quiet and still, for a while, then pressed his forehead against the glass. It was strange that he felt compelled to stare but the sight was almost comforting. He was warm, safe and the night did not pose a threat. He knew there was things much more frightening than mere darkness.

Then, there it was.

A head of brown, unruly and curly hair was rushing down the street, hurrying, and intent on a destination. He checked the time. It was almost half past midnight. He looked back and peered at the woman, hurrying down the street and he felt a sense of responsibility wash over him.

He really ought to make sure she was okay, he decided. He would feel some sort of guilt if he found out the next day that Hermione Granger had been murdered right near his apartment. With a soft sigh of dejection, looking down at the vial of potion in his hand, undrunk, he decided to throw on a robe and make his way into the hallway, down the hallway and into the dining room, throwing open the French doors that looked much more different with sunlight streaming through it than it did in the night and watched.

He couldn't help it, there was a sick feeling of voyeurism that accompanied the action, watching someone unbeknownst to them. But his bleary but bright eyes followed her, as she scurried down the street, right below his nose, crossing to the other side and then, just as she was about to disappear down a dark alley (which concerned him a little bit), she caught him off guard by looking up, directly at him.

His first instinct was to duck. His second was to freeze.

The second instinct took over and he watched her, watching him, knowing he had been caught. He knew he was doing the wrong thing; after all, people were allowed to be on their own balconies even if it was the middle of the frigid night. But he still felt like he had committed some sort of crime against her and he realised that there was nothing he say to her, with her being so far away.

He couldn't see her face but he knew that there was a scowl.

It was the first time he had seen her in person in close to two years but the look she cast him was still just as ferocious as his mind had preserved it. He made a move, a soft, slow movement, leaning his arm onto the stone railing and watched her, raising a brow. He didn't know if she could see him.

Hermione Granger's scowl deepened and then she was turning, after barely even the ghost of a nod in his direction and in the still of the night, he heard the crack of apparition and knew she was gone. He scoffed to himself; she was rather good at disappearing wasn't she.

The myriad of questions that he had held within himself from the moment he had seen her flooded out, with the main one being; what on earth was she doing? Rather than dwell, Draco Malfoy made the conscious decision not to care too much about it. After all, he had decided long ago that he would no longer concern himself with her wellbeing nor her comings and goings.

Still, the hurt he had felt that morning when he realised she was back in town without notifying him, was strong. He had gone into work at the Ministry (a cushy job his father had secured for him in the Department of Mysteries) with a furrow in his brow that refused to leave until lunchtime, when he had gone out to treat himself with a well-deserved lunch reservation at a rather nice restaurant.

There, he had a pleasant meal, taking his time, watching the passers-by, imaging that at any moment Hermione Granger would turn the corner and he could corner her with his questions. But she did not, not that he had really expected her to, and his questions were left unanswered.

He decided to go back to bed, deciding with a tone of finality in his own mind, that he would no longer dwell on the brunette, feeling the edge of the vial in his palm and then, he was back in his warm bed, downing the draught and his head back on the pillow, one hand on his chest and the other by his side, eyes closed and waiting to slip into a deep, dreamless sleep, waiting for that inevitable moment that the sleeping potion would wear off and his screaming dreams would return with vengeance.

* * *

The next day was a rainy one, the water splashing onto his new leather shoes, the bright black, gleaming shoes being covered in muddy water as he made his way into the public bathroom that would take him to the ministry. He stepped into the cistern with automation, pulled the flush and then in a matter of seconds, he was stumbling into the great hallway, the gleaming fountain beckoning him at the end.

He walked with his head high, smirking and smiling at colleagues, making polite conversation before he was in an elevator, watching the gate closing in front of him and the occupants. He placed his hands into his pockets and eyed a note lingering near his head, trying to read the note with mild curiosity before giving up and waiting patiently.

What waited him in his office was a letter, penned in neat, scrawling writing.

His heart almost leapt when he recognised it until bitterness sunk in; this was the first form of communication she had made with him in years and the words were a disappointment.

 _Malfoy,_

 _Please do not make it public knowledge of my appearance in London last night. Hope you're well._

 _Hermione Granger._

He couldn't help it and scrunched it up. He wouldn't tell; after all, who did he know who would care? The note was tossed into the receptacle and then he was ignoring the nagging feeling in the back of his mind about her, flipping open a file outlining a time device that had recently been discovered in the Middle East.

It wasn't until his third coffee that he realised that the anger he felt that had resulted in him snapping at a few interns as well as Pansy Parkinson, who was visiting from the Auror's Department, was from the note.

She didn't call him Draco.

* * *

 **A/N:** Thank you for reading. I am looking for someone who will help me edit and perhaps bounce some ideas off, preferably over Skype. Please let me know if you are interested. Reviews are always welcome.


End file.
